“Oh yes, Sir Caradoc, strange things happen in the world of gems. I’m sure Mr. Williams agrees with me. Don’t you, Mr. Williams?”
Janet heard a noncommittal grunt followed by a grinding of teeth. “God!” muttered Williams. “Why hasn’t somebody strangled that woman?”
Chapter 9
SIR CARADOC’S BIRTHDAY DAWNED fair and warm as a day in mid-June. It wouldn’t have dared not to.
“Oh, Madoc, the weather’s going to be perfect!”
Janet spoke before she noticed that the other half of the bed was empty. Smiling, she went to scoop Dorothy out of the cradle.
“Come on, Dody, time to get up. Your da’s out climbing the ivy again.”
She’d got her daughter bathed, fed, and dressed all but the gala frock and bonnet and was laying out fresh underwear for herself when Madoc entered prosaically through the door. She gave him a kiss on the left ear.
“Good morning, Merry Sunshine. Been doing a reconnaissance?”
“Just making sure the larks are all on the wing and the snails aren’t muscling in on each other’s thorns. What’s up?”
“Us, almost. Keep an eye on Dorothy, will you? I’ve got to get organized.”
Janet left Madoc playing with the baby and went into the bathroom. There was a shower of sorts, just a rubber tube that fitted over the bathtub spout and had a sprinkler head on the other end. It worked well enough for practical purposes. She soaped and rinsed, gave herself a quick shampoo, and toweled her head. A comb through and a push here and there were all the hair-dressing she needed. Nature would handle the rest.
“I don’t think I’ll put my good clothes on yet,” she said.
“Glad to hear it.” Madoc plunked Dorothy back in the cradle, gave her a toy rabbit to chew on, and turned the cradle so that she couldn’t see what was happening in the bed.
“That wasn’t what I meant.” Nevertheless, Janet allowed herself to be persuaded. After a while, she rubbed her lips against his thick, dark hair. “That was a pleasant way to start the day, I hope it stays this good. In a manner of speaking, that is. You were planning to shave, weren’t you?”
“Yes, love, and I’d better get cracking before the rest are up and hogging all the hot water. You and Dorothy go on down to breakfast if you want.”
“No rush. She’s had her first course and my hair’s still damp. I’ll come and hold the hose if you want.”
What with one thing and another, they didn’t get to the kitchen until close on eight o’clock, by which time Sir Caradoc was on the scene and the birthday in full swing. Madoc’s parents had already been for a short stroll; Lady Rhys had stuck a daisy in her hair and another in her husband’s buttonhole.
“We walked up to the big barn,” she reported, plucking Dorothy out of Madoc’s arms for a morning hug. “Huw and Elen and the lot of them are buzzing around up there like a swarm of bees. Nobody’s dressed for the party yet—they’re planning to change before the guests start arriving.”
“Which means the vicar and his wife will catch them running around barefoot and pantless.” Sir Emlyn helped himself complacently to strawberries. “I personally am as dressed as I’m going to get.”
“So am I,” said Sir Caradoc. “How do you like my birthday scarf, Jenny?”
“You both look just lovely.”
The handsome but not too handsome silk scarves were exactly right, Lady Rhys must have picked them out. And tied them, too. She’d had so much experience improvising haberdashery for orchestra and chorus members who’d mislaid their luggage or run short of clean linen that she’d become a dab hand as a dresser.
“Is it a boiled egg you would like to eat this morning, Mrs. Madoc?” Betty was determined that nobody should go hungry.
“That would be nice. I’ll cut some more bread for toast, shall I? Madoc, you want berries, don’t you?”
Madoc wanted berries. Dorothy had a boiled egg like her mother’s, she shared it with Betty’s cat.
“Bartholomew,” Betty fussed, “will you not be making a pest of yourself?”
Madoc wasn’t hearing a word against the old malkin. “Let him alone, Betty, he’s only trying to help. What the moggy catches on the way down, the floor doesn’t.”
This made excellent sense to everybody, especially Bartholomew. Things were going swimmingly when Bob and Mary appeared, in that order. The brother and sister were already dressed for the festivities, they could hardly have been more so.
Bob’s usual, about which Janet had wondered a bit, turned out to be a black skullcap, a starched ruff, and a long-sleeved black robe of fine wool that hung down over his shoetops. Over the robe he wore a loose, short black surcoat with its full sleeves turned back. He was going to fry in that getup by noontime, Janet thought. He’d have looked much like a pig’s head on a platter sitting atop a tar barrel, if it hadn’t been for the beard. Today, instead of the coquettish fan, he had his chin whiskers combed down into a point, for some reason he’d no doubt be telling them all about before they could turn him off.
The sister was in traditional Welsh garb: a black steeple hat worn over a white mobcap, full red flannel skirt, fitted black waistcoat, white blouse with a hand-crocheted lace collar, black shoes and stockings, and a rather handsome shawl woven in red and black checks. The ruffled cap hid her lank hair and softened her face, the tall hat relieved her dumpiness, the colorful skirt and shawl did far more for her sallow complexion than her customary muddy grays and browns. Janet felt Mary deserved a compliment, and was happy to give it.
That meant she had to say something nice to Bob also. She could hardly allude to the pig on the platter and couldn’t quite bring herself to an outright lie, so she compromised on “What an interesting costume.”
Bob smoothed his restructured facial adornment and rewarded her with a complacent nod. “This garb is indeed of great interest and also of much historical significance. Even you, from your savage land of howling wolves and eternal snow, will have realized that I am thus honoring the memory of the illustrious John Dee.”
Actually Janet hadn’t realized, but knew better than to say so. Bob was getting nicely wound up.
“You, in your benighted ignorance of Welsh history and lifelong exposure to English propaganda, will perhaps not be aware that this unparalled mathematician, cosmographer, astrologer, and some say necromancer; whom Queen Elizabeth the First called her philosopher, who himself had calculated by his art the most auspicious day for her coronation, who schooled her in the esoteric interpretation of his works, notably the Protopaedeumata aphoristica and the Monas hieroglyphica; who assisted her in claiming for her realm those far lands that were being discovered by her subjects, was himself, though born in London, by blood a Welshman.”
Janet did her best to look thunderstruck, hoping Bob had run out of subordinate clauses. She might have known he was only warming up for the smashing grand finale.
“And, look you, Mrs. Madoc, what is to me of the most immediate import is this.” He leaned so far forward that the end of his beard narrowly missed a dunking in his teacup. “John Dee was my ancestor!”
“And mine!” Mary was not about to let her brother hog all the glory. “Through our mother,” she added complacently, scoring a point for the distaff side and letting the Rhyses know they needn’t think they could muscle in on the Dees.
“I had no idea.”
That was the plain truth. Janet wasn’t very well up on astrologers and necromancers, although she had known an alchemist of sorts back in Pitcherville. That one had been able to transform tubfuls of potato peelings and rotten turnips, plus a little burnt sugar and whatever other odds and ends might be lying around, into an implausible but far from feeble imitation of rye whiskey; until Madoc and the town marshal had found out what he was up to and made him stop. She didn’t think Bob would be interested in hearing about the Pitcherville alchemist, she might as well finish her tea and go tend to her flowers.
“Come on, Dorothy, let’s get you fixed and take yo
u for a little walk.”
“Where are you off to, men?” Mary was already half out of her chair.
“To the loo” would be rude. Janet merely smiled, wiped Dorothy’s face with her napkin dipped in water and took off the eggy bib. A change of diaper—nappy rather; when in Britain one must change as the Brits changed—was probably indicated.
“Want me to take her, Jenny?”
Madoc was ready to oblige. So was Lady Rhys, but Janet was getting to feel she’d just as soon keep her baby to herself once in a while.
“Thanks, I’ll manage. Say thank you to Betty, Dorothy. No, don’t kiss her till you’ve had your face washed. All right, kiss the kitty if you want, I don’t suppose he’ll mind.”
“It is unsanitary to kiss cats.” Bob was miffed with Mrs. Madoc, most likely not so much because she was letting her daughter do what any reasonable child would naturally do as because she wouldn’t stick around and listen to him yammer on about John Dee.
“No it isn’t,” Janet replied unfeelingly. “I’ve kissed cats myself, and never died of it yet.”
She let Dorothy rub noses with Bartholomew a couple more times, then picked her up and headed for the bathroom. When she came back, Mary was still demanding to know where she intended to walk; it would be childish not to tell. “I’m just going to borrow Aunt Elen’s watering pot and freshen up the flowers in the chapel.”
“What kind of flowers? Why didn’t you ask me? I would have done them. I shall go with you.”
“Don’t you want to finish your breakfast?”
Mary had taken a generous plateful of everything going, but had barely touched her food. Not that it would go to waste—Bob was already casting a lustful eye at his sister’s sausages even though he hadn’t yet finished his own. Nevertheless, Janet wished the woman would stay in the kitchen.
Night before last, Mary had been silly and tedious about her leaping. Last night, examining the great emerald, she’d been still a bore but something of a personage. Today she was almost manic, dancing about like a skittish racehorse at the post, straining to be off and running. Was it because tonight she was going to leap the Beltane fire?
Well, why not? If a woman had reached middle age and only got her crotch warmed once a year—Janet flushed and administered a silent rebuke to her wayward mind. That was the sort of vulgar, sexist remark her brother’s hired man might get away with down at the Owls’ Hall, but hardly the thing for a respectable married woman to be thinking in the presence of her inlaws, not to mention her own baby daughter.
Speaking of whom, if Janet thought she was going to monopolize Dorothy all morning, it was clear she’d have to think again. Sir Emlyn was letting it be known with a smile and a nod that he had a lap ready and waiting. Lady Rhys was more outspoken.
“Oh, look at that smile! Come, precious, don’t you want to stay with Granny and Grandda and pat the pussy while Mam does her flowers? Jenny, you can’t carry Dorothy and the watering pot both, wouldn’t you like us to mind her for you? You’ll be coming back soon to change for the party.”
Janet had the sense to recognize an order, however politely disguised. She handed over the prize to the victors and perforce accepted Mary as a most unwelcome substitute.
Mary was as exasperating to walk with as she was to listen to, darting ahead or lagging back, grabbing Janet’s arm then pushing it away, urging her on or nagging her to slow down. Janet tuned her pestiferous companion out as best she could, and concentrated on the day and the scene.
There was plenty of activity around the farm. The kitchen door stood wide open; people were rushing in and out, carrying things up from the milking shed, into the house, out to the barn, back and forth, forth and back. Nobody had time to stop and chat. Elen’s watering pot was standing on the long wooden bench outside the door, Janet filled it from the spigot and went on to the chapel.
Her flowers had held up pretty well, but it was surprising how much water they’d managed to drink. Janet went around tweaking out the wilted ones, nipping off a faded blossom here and there, moving a stem to make a better show, refilling the depleted jars. She didn’t have to worry about spills, water couldn’t hurt stone and that old curtain over the altar was too far gone to matter. It did make a pleasant effect, though, with Aunt Elen’s candles, the big bouquet in the middle and the massed jam pots below.
Mary had, for a wonder, fallen silent while Janet worked. Now she erupted again. “Where is the mullein? I am seeing no mullein. There must be mullein.”
“And where do you propose to find any this early in the year?” Janet snapped back. “Anyway, mullein isn’t much to look at.”
“But mullein is necessary.”
Janet couldn’t see why, nor did she care. “Then why don’t you go see if you can find some?”
She might have known Mary wouldn’t pay attention, “And bindweed.”
“Bindweed? Do you mean wild morning glory?” Janet had seen some in the hedgerows: big white blossoms, much more impressive than the smaller pink-tinged ones she was used to in New Brunswick. “I know it’s lovely but the flowers shut right up if you pick them.”
“Three days before the new moon.”
“Is it? I’ve lost track, what with all the traveling.” Janet didn’t see what relevance the moon had to bindweed unless morning glories worked the night shift in Wales. Or unless Mary was just talking to hear herself talk.
“Oh, you did use toadflax. That’s a relief.” The bright handful of yellow and orange flowers, like tiny snapdragons crowded together on spiky stems, did make a pleasant splash of color against the dark gray stone. Perhaps that was what Mary meant, if in fact she meant anything at all.
“Our name for it back home is butter and eggs,” said Janet. “When I was little, my father showed me how to make the blossoms open and close their mouths. I used to pretend they were talking to me. We had a great patch down behind the barn.” Where the old backhouse used to be—she didn’t have to include that detail. “An old neighbor of ours called them ramstead. She claimed it had been a Welshman named Ramstead who first brought the plants over to North America. Did you know that?”
Mary didn’t answer; she was walking round and round the altar widdershins, mumbling something to herself. Janet pinched one little blossom gently at the sides so that she could see the toad’s mouth open, then picked up the now-empty watering pot.
“There, that’s done. I’d better get back to the big house and put on my glad rags. Are you coming, or do you want to go looking for mullein?”
Not that Mary’d be apt to find any, but at least the hunt would keep her busy for a while, which was a consummation devoutly to be wished. Janet had a beautiful thought.
“You know, Mary, that’s really a marvelous outfit you have on. I was just thinking how picturesque you’d look rambling around the hilltop, where people could see you as they came up. Guests ought to begin arriving pretty soon, hadn’t they?”
“Yes! Yes they will.”
Without another word, Mary hared off up the slope. Janet breathed a sigh of relief, put the watering pot back where she’d found it, exchanged a few quick words with passing Rhyses, and went on down to Uncle Caradoc’s. He and Sir Emlyn were having a companionable wander around the garden. Lady Rhys and Dorothy were nowhere in sight.
“What have you done with my daughter?” Janet asked them.
“Sillie took her up to get dressed for the party,” her father-in-law answered. “Madoc’s gone over to Lisa’s on some kind of secret mission. How did you manage to shake Mary?”
“I sent her up on the hill to look picturesque. Actually she’s trying to find some mullein and bindweed—she didn’t think much of the way I did the flowers for the chapel. Except the toadflax, she approved of that. Did you know it was brought over to the colonies by a Welshman?
“No, but I surmise why a Welshman might have wanted to have familiar plants growing around him,” said Sir Caradoc. “Mary had better leave your flowers alone.”
Jane
t couldn’t have agreed more, but she did wonder why the old man spoke so sharply. Sharply for him, anyway. Perhaps he was as fed up with Mary as the rest of them were, it was high time for a change of subject.
“Where’s Gwen this morning? I haven’t seen her yet. Or Dai either, come to think of it.”
“Gwen came down right after you left,” Sir Emlyn told her. “She had some tea and went to fix her mother’s hair. We’re supposed to send you straight up the minute you get back, to have your hat fitted. Dai, I believe, got up very early and went to join Owain’s lot.”
“That’s good, they’ll keep him busy. I’d better hop along, then, before Gwen comes after me.”
“You had indeed. Our Gwendolyn is not to be gainsaid.” Uncle Caradoc was smiling down at her. “Jenny, it is a joy to have you here. I hope you will enjoy my birthday as much as I am doing.”
“I fully intend to.”
Just so Mary didn’t go messing around in the chapel. Mullein and bindweed, forsooth! Either the woman was a little bit cracked or else she’d been watching some television program about flower arranging for the space age. Well, to heck with Mary. What if the hat didn’t go with her dress?
Janet ran upstairs, changed into her Liberty lawn, grateful that she wouldn’t have to wear winter woolies under it on a day like this, and rushed to see her hat. It was perfect. Gwen was an enchantment, Lady Rhys an empress in disguise, Dorothy a living doll. Now for the birthday party.
Chapter 10
JANET HAD BEEN WONDERING how they were going to cope with Dorothy all day, she might have known Madoc would come up with the answer. He was back from Lisa’s pushing a magnificent pram that must have been Tib’s, complete with flounced pillows and an embroidered pink silk carriage robe, plus a more utilitarian one to spread on the grass for the baby to crawl around on. Janet was ecstatic.
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